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Chicken Beaks Forever: An Hispanic Migration

by Ben Romero

174 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); illustrated; catalogue #05-0002; ISBN 1-4120-5108-8; US$17.95, C$22.00, EUR15.50, £11.00

Life is a mystery. We never know what surprises lay before us or how we will fulfill our destinies. Unity and humor are good foundations for family strength and survival.

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About the Book      About the Author      Excerpts      Catalogue Information

About the Book

In the 1960's a depressed economy in the southwestern United States created an accelerated migration to California. Countless families pulled up stakes and looked with hope toward a land where jobs were plentiful and food affordable. Despite the trials and struggles, families found humor in everyday life. Unity became the foundation for strength and survival. This book retraces experiences of a Hispanic family leaving New Mexico and relocating in California.

THE LAND OF GOLD

On Labor Day weekend of 1968 my family traveled toward a dream we believed would be found or made in the land of gold. I had lived my entire life in Northern New Mexico and never traveled more than 150 miles in any direction. My parents had suffered a few financial setbacks and my father and eighteen year-old brother, Louie went to California to find work. Two months later, my father returned for the rest of the family.

My two younger brothers were soon asleep with the hum of the motor and movement of the car. My seventeen year-old sister, Marcella was irritable, but quiet. It had been a tiring day, renting and hitching the tiny U-haul trailer and stuffing our belongings, before driving three hours to the airport to pick up Dad. He had worked in the morning and taken a late flight from San Francisco to Albuquerque.

"How long will we be on the road?" asked Marcella.

"We should be in San Jose by Monday morning," said Dad.

It was a long trip, compounded by the slow speed we were forced to travel. The U-haul had signs painted on all sides that read 45 MPH. Dad violated the limit most of the time, but not by much.

Although there were six of us in the car, we were not crammed. Joseph, being only three, sat in front, between my parents. There were no seat belts to worry about at the time, so he was able to stretch out and sleep.

"Mejór ladeate (You'd better pull over)," said Mom, when she noticed the car weaving.

Dad drove the car off the shoulder of the highway where we'd be safe from traffic.

"Are we going to sleep in the car?" I asked.

"No," said Dad. "Vámos a sacar un colchón (Let's pull out a mattress)."

Dad and I unlocked the trailer and tossed a twin-size mattress on the ground. The night was dark, but warm and comfortable. The only noise was the occasional sound of passing cars. We stretched out, with a thin blanket and a couple of pillows. The rest of the family stayed in the car.

Dad shook me.

"Vámos (Let's go)." I felt a chill as Dad pulled off the blanket. I wanted to sleep longer. The darkness was disappearing.

"Ahorita paramos a comer (We'll stop to eat soon)," said Dad, starting the motor and pulling onto the highway. I envied Johnny and Joseph for their peaceful sleep. Marcella was curled up like a possum.

"Give me room," I said, claiming space with my elbows.

"Why don't you ride in the trailer?" grunted Marcella.

Dad looked at us through the rear-view mirror and I held my tongue. Although I was nearly sixteen years old, I knew better than to make Dad angry.

A few miles inside Arizona, we stopped at a service station. It had clean restrooms and an outside picnic table. We enjoyed Mom's baloney and green chile sandwiches and apples we'd picked from the trees back home. The morning chill gave way to a harsh sun.

"We have to get moving," said Dad. "We'll rest later, when the day gets hot."

We had never owned a vehicle with air conditioning and had never missed it - until now. The mid-afternoon sun beat on the car, threatening to melt the windows.

"It's like an oven in here," said Marcella. She rolled down her window and a gush of hot air assaulted us like a torch.

"Close it!" cackled Johnny. At eight years of age, his shrill voice annoyed everybody.

I had my shirt unbuttoned and watched the stream of perspiration trickle down my chest into my bellybutton.

One place where we stopped for gas had a thermometer with the picture of a hummingbird engraved on the glass. The temperature read 120 degrees in the shade.

"¿Tienen hambre (Are you guys hungry)?" asked Mom.

It was her subtle way of letting Dad know she was tired of being in the car.

We stopped on a frontage road in the outskirts of a place called Williams. There was a grassy area with trees and a refreshing breeze. This time the twin-size mattress was shared by everyone.

I couldn't figure out if Marcella was grumpy or sad. She was quieter than I'd ever seen and I decided to give her space.

I tried to entertain my little brothers so my parents could rest. We walked along a trail picking up rocks and looking for ground squirrels. At a little rise we discovered a dead puppy. Its mouth was open and all four legs stuck straight out. It was hard to imagine that it once bent its knees and ran and played. I wondered where its mama was. It was comforting to know my parents were nearby.

By nightfall we reached the California border. Everybody's mood changed for the better. There was laughter and cheering in the car's cramped quarters. Dad stopped at Needles and bought hamburgers to break the monotony of baloney sandwiches. There was no breeze. The suffocating night air made my chest feel tight.

"At least we're in California," said Dad. "We'll be at Tía Carolina's house soon. Louie will be waiting."

We were quickly disillusioned by the unforgiving terrain that continued for the next two hundred miles. I saw no difference between Arizona and Southern California.

"There's nothing but cactus and rocks," I said. "We haven't passed any buildings in hours."

"Ten paciencia (Be patient)," growled Dad.

In the middle of nowhere, we had to stop for agriculture inspection.

"Where are you coming from?" asked the man at the booth.

"New Mexico," said Dad.

"Where you headed?"

"San Jose."

"Do you have any fruit in the car?"

"Just a few apples," said Dad, showing him a grocery bag.

"Is that all of them?"

"That's it," said Dad.

"You'd better leave them here," said the man. "Move on."

Dad handed over the bag and we continued on our way. It was only a few apples, but I felt like we had given up half of what we owned.

I knew our destination had to be a very pleasant place because Dionne Warwick had made a song entitled 'Do You Know The Way To San Jose?' In it, she mentioned abundant space and friendly people. At the very least I pictured a modern city. I had also heard of Oakland and imagined that it must be a town filled with oak trees. And it was close to San Francisco. Maybe we'd get a chance to visit the land of hippies.

A couple hours before daybreak we passed a tiny town called Los Baños. Mom wanted to stop and stretch, but everything was closed. We opened the car windows to let in the cool breeze and aroma of alfalfa fields.

Ahead of us was Pacheco Pass. The climb was steep, the road curved and narrow. The motor whined as Dad tried to pick up speed. Near the crest of the highest hill, the car sputtered and the engine died. Dad pulled over as far from traffic as possible.

"What are we going to do?" asked Marcella. "Every time one of those big tomato trucks comes by, the whole car shakes."

"Let's let the car cool for a minute," said Dad. "I think it will start." It didn't.

"The battery wore down," said Dad. "If we can get to the top of the hill, we can coast down the other side and I'll pop the clutch to start it." Marcella, Dad, and I got out of the car and pushed while Mom steered. Within minutes a man in a Volkswagen pulled up behind us.

"Get that car off the road! Those trucks can't stop with the load they're carrying."

Dad took the man's advice and we pushed the car to the shoulder again. Just as we climbed back in, a line of trucks whizzed by us at frightening speeds. Mom crossed herself, and I knew she had been praying.

"What are we going to do?" asked Marcella.

Suddenly a solitary pair of headlights drove up next to us. It was a middle-aged man in a 1959 Ford Galaxy.

"¿Necesitan ayuda (Do you need help)?" he yelled.

Dad climbed out of the car and explained the situation. The man pulled a chain from his trunk and attached it to the front of our car and the back of his. Our car creaked as the struggling Ford Galaxy pulled us onto the road. Dad popped the clutch and the motor started.

"Whew! Gracias a Diós (Thanks to God)," said Mom.

The stranger did not accept the money Dad offered. He unhooked his chain and pulled out into traffic. We watched him drive off and a speeding truck almost rear-ended his car. My heart pounded and I trembled from the close call.

It was early in the morning when we reached San Jose. There was light fog in town and in the surrounding orchards. The homes were unimpressive. They looked as old as any I had seen in New Mexico. I compared the city to Albuquerque and thought it did not look as attractive. What a bummer.

My uncle and aunt owned a large, older home with tiny apartments in back. With my brother Louie's help, we unloaded our little U-Haul trailer and moved into one of them. My Great-aunt Paula occupied the other apartment. There was a basement studio that was rented, and a small building that contained a shower and a bathroom for the use of the guy in the basement.

Next door to my aunt's house lived Cousin Jenny, her husband, Lionel and their four kids. The family was friendly and tried to make us feel at home. The few weeks we spent there were memorable.

Every evening Mom, my aunt and cousin Jenny would prepare a meal that everyone enjoyed when Dad, Louie, cousin Lionel and uncle Ramón got home from work. It was harvest season and each day someone brought home tomatoes, grapes, chilies, corn, and other fresh goodies to add to the huge meals of beans, potatoes and tortillas. It was a happy time. The walnut trees in my uncle's shady backyard added a special fragrance where we sat around to visit after dinner.

One afternoon I was washing the car and not wearing a shirt when my Great-aunt Paula saw me.

"¡Diós Mio!" she said to my mother. "Feed that boy. He looks like a skeleton." I noticed how plump all my cousins were and felt self conscious about my slim body.

EDUCATION

There had been no time to contact friends to tell them we were moving. As I looked at the calendar, I couldn't help but think about school in Española. It had started the day after Labor Day and I wasn't there. I wondered if anyone noticed. Does anybody miss me? Does anybody care?

Within a week, school started in California. My sister Marcella and I enrolled at San Jose High School. I was a Junior and Marcella a Senior. I wore my best clothes to school and arrived feeling confident. But within minutes I felt out of place. Every boy was wearing levis and a white t-shirt. I was the only person wearing a button shirt and slacks. I stuck out like a sore thumb.

Never had I seen so many kids at one school. I asked a teacher for directions and he asked a girl to show me the way. The girl looked at me and I could tell she did not want to be seen with me. She pointed the way but did everything she could to lose me in the crowd.

I felt like I was on another planet. Strange languages were spilling out from everywhere. There were Portuguese, Italians, Japanese, Chinese, Blacks, Mexicans, and Anglos. I had grown up as part of a majority and was now a minority. I had always been around Hispanics and Indians with a few Anglos and an occasional Black. The only place I had ever seen an Asian was on television and in Chinese restaurants. I felt very small. I wanted to go home.

The one thing in school that made me feel good was the curriculum. I had expected it to be far superior to New Mexico schools, but I was wrong. The classes were easier and the grading curve more generous. I should have become a straight A student. But instead, I became more laid back and concentrated too much in trying to assimilate with the majority.

FIRST IMPRESSIONS

When my dad finally got a day off work, he suggested we take a trip to San Francisco. It was my first time in a large city. Getting there was a frightening experience, with the tremendous number of cars on the freeway traveling at alarming speeds, almost touching bumpers.

Once in the city, we opened the car windows and marveled at the tall buildings, crooked streets and steep terrain. After driving around for hours (much of the time lost), we stopped at Fisherman's Wharf. It was getting dark and the weather turned chilly.

Finding a place to park was difficult, but my brother Louie was a great driver and we had full confidence in him.

We walked among the crowd close to one another so as not to lose anybody and experienced the smells of salty air and fish. For the first time I saw large crabs being boiled alive and people buying fresh fish and crab cocktails from outdoor stands. I did not find it appetizing. It was a few years before I got the courage to try it.

The day ended with us traveling back to San Jose after dark. The lights of the city were pleasing to the eye. We saw the famous Golden Gate Bridge all lit up (but it wasn't gold in color) and large crowds walking in the streets.

Many of the people we saw that day were strange by New Mexico standards. Some of them talked to themselves. One man had a beard and wore bright red lipstick and a dress. Where did all the people come from? Where did they park and gas up? Where were the grocery stores? Were they really different or were we? The houses seemed to be pasted together. I hoped that we would never move to San Francisco.

On a different weekend we took a trip to Santa Cruz. As we neared the beach, the water looked bluer than the sky. The smell of salty air was still unfamiliar to me. Other than the San Francisco Bay, I had never seen the ocean. There was a Boardwalk with a big roller coaster and other carnival rides, but everything had a high price. The beach was sunny and warm, though. I was anxious to get to the sand near the water to join the beach parties. I wanted to see people surfing and girls in bikinis. Where was the music? Where were the people playing volleyball, like I had seen in the movies? Was this an off day?

It was hard walking on the sand. I took off my shoes and burned my feet. When I got to the water's edge and my toes got wet, I had to jump back. The water was like ice. This was not the way it was supposed to be. I felt deceived.

We played a few carnival games on the Boardwalk and ate corn dogs and ice cream sandwiches. My brothers, Johnny and Joseph, got on a couple of kiddie rides while they had the chance. We left the beach totally exhausted, our shoes full of sand. It turned out to be a good family day, but I couldn't help feeling disappointed. I had pictured the beach differently. Maybe I had expected too much.

THE TURKEY

"It doesn't even feel like Thanksgiving," I said, stepping into the kitchen. Marcella was making a racket with the dishes; Mom was placing clear wrap over a large salad.

"We have so much to be thankful for this year," said Mom. "Your Dad is working, we have a place to stay, and we're all together."

"What about Ramona and Virginia?" I regretted the comment as soon as it left my mouth. Mom's eyes became misty.

"Las vamos a llamar (We're going to call them)," she said, busying herself with the side dishes she was preparing.

"Make yourself useful," quipped Marcella. "Johnny needs socks and Joseph can't find one of his shoes."

"You're not my boss," I said.

One glance at Mom told me she was taking sides with Marcella. "Apúrense (hurry up)," she said. Joseph and Johnny both caught the urgency in her command and scampered to their room without comment.

The taste of Thanksgiving was in the air, even before we knocked on the door.

"Well, it's about time you got here." Cousin Jennie's laughing voice was like music and sugar rolled up into one. I felt a welcome sensation reach the depths of my soul. The noise was delicious. It was the sound of cheerful voices; Tío Ramón's chatter after a few cans of agua bendita, cousin Lionel's booming laughter, cousin Jennie and Tía Carolina clattering the holiday china, younger cousins weaving in and out of the house.

The warmth that comes from family closeness enveloped the house.

"You can put your coats and sweaters on the bed," said Tía Carolina, opening the door to the guestroom.

"Let Tía Delia see the baby before you leave," said Jennie to a young woman I had never seen. "Are you sure you can't stay and eat with us?"

A multi-colored blanket was passed around from person to person. Oohs and Ahhs followed the bundle. "Goo-goo." Everyone had a need to touch and speak to the bundle. Everyone got a turn, even me.

"Do you want to see the baby?" I asked Joseph. He gave his innocent, shy nod and clung to my pants leg.

"See? He has fine hair like yours." For some reason, Joseph looked away from the child, refusing to hold him. I passed the bundle along and went out to breathe some fresh air.

"They're getting ready to serve," said David. "Grandpa's going to say grace." We pushed our way into the dining room and stood in near silence as Tía Carolina carried the brown turkey in on a large platter.

Oohs and Ahhs followed the steaming fowl as it was passed around for all to see. Then it was placed on the table next to Tío Ramón, who bowed his head to pray.

Out of the moment of silence that precedes prayer, Joseph's innocent voice spoke: "Why are we going to eat the baby?"

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About the Author

Ben Romero was born and raised in Northern New Mexico, the fifth of seven children in a Hispanic, Catholic household. Romero is a part-time Adult Education teacher in an ESL program (English as a Second Language), and uses some of his writings as material for teaching.

He has spent the past twenty-nine years working for the US Postal Service and serves as Customer Relations Coordinator for the Central San Joaquin Valley. He received a Bachelor of Arts Degree in Management with a minor in Spanish from Fresno Pacific University in 1995.

Romero is a member of the Central California Hispanic Chamber of Commerce and is married to Evelyn Romero, his wife of thirty-three years. They have five children and four grandchildren.

Chicken Beaks Forever: An Hispanic Migration is the third of a three-book series. Other titles by Romero include Chicken Beaks: Growing Up Hispanic, Chicken Beaks Revisited: An Hispanic Adolescence, and Dance of the Chickens: An Anthology of Light-hearted Stories. Romero's fifth book, Chicken Chisme: The Fine Art of Gossip, will be available in late 2005. Visit www.benromero.com

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Excerpts

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Catalogue Information

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